


Rock on, Sugarlips

by Forevercurse



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Band Fic, F/F, Mutual Pining, POV Gideon Nav, Pining, gideon is something else with that guitar and also cant drive, harrow is a power screamer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29531502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forevercurse/pseuds/Forevercurse
Summary: Harrow is writing up a single to compete in their town's songwriting competition and knows no one else who can play. She has no other choice but to request aid from the local legend of the strings herself - Gideon Nav.AKA: When Gideon stumbles into joining a band led by her worst enemy. The vibes were rancid.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Rock on, Sugarlips

**Saturday**

The car pulled up to the single lot at the end of the road. It was a huge, gated property, Victorian probably. The house was made of dark paneling and was more than likely, definitely haunted. The lawn was absolutely pristine, turf cut no more than an inch and a quarter. 

“Huh, we _are_ here.” 

Camilla Hect, bass player extraordinaire and the type to be too busy to help out today, but not too busy to drop Gideon off _alone_ at the front doorstep of her own grave, turned down her radio and put her ride in park. She looked past the window at an open garage, bobbed brown hair swishing in the car’s blasting AC. “Sounds like my cue,” said Gideon, reaching for the door handle.

“Thanks for the lift, Hect, have fun with Sexpal.”

She knew they were just doing library work, she knew that couldn’t be delayed, she knew Sex Pal was not fond of loud music.

“Have fun with death incarnate,” she dropped the words on her head like a ten ton fighter tank, ruthlessly. Gideon blanked. “Couldn’t have said it better myself,” she said. She pulled herself out of the front seat, touched the soles of her black boots to the hot summer asphalt, and smacked twice at the top of the car. She thought it could use a paint job, but that was none of her business. 

Heat rose off the ground like smoke from a wildfire. The sun was bright, way too bright for 1pm on a Saturday.

Gideon walked into dead-center of the driveway, stopping before the black iron gate. She cocked her head and squinted through her sunglasses, scanning the shaded garage for any sense of the space inside. A contorted shadow shifted as Gideon’s eyes adjusted to the dark. The hunched figure uncurled and made her way into the light. The vibes were rancid.

“I would rather eat my own fists than go do instruments in there with you, Gloom Mistress,” she yelled up the driveway. The Gloom Mistress stepped towards the gate, opened it, and stepped to the side of the stone path. “Nav, don’t tell me you plan on walking right back home,” she said calmly. “Not when you owe me.” 

“ _Owe_ you-“

“Why of course.” 

Cutting her off, Harrowhark grabbed Gideon’s wrist and pulled her into the garage. “Come with me, and don’t touch anything.” Gideon groaned audibly, not touching anything.

She stumbled over amp cables and instrument pedals as she was led through the concrete room. The walls were grey and horrifyingly bare, save for a single band poster and skull decal threatening to peel off. She stepped over a plush rug, put in there to soak up someone’s car juices a long time ago, car now replaced with too many speakers and mic stands. Gideon, eyes finally adjusted to the shade, was glad she could see again. She took note of Harrow's twig arm leading her in, long bony fingers still clenching her wrist, she wanted nothing more than to yank herself free immediately and perish. 

Harrow brought her to the back of the room. Gideon took her arm back, the alarms that rang in her head finally quieted. 

Despite being the gothest of all bitches in the universe, cloaking herself and her surroundings in never ending layers of black, she picked up a white electric guitar that had been collecting dust against the wall. She brought it up closer to her and inspected it. She looked straight down the neck, twisted the knobs. After a moment of intense thought, her sharp face turned as she shoved it to Gideon. Harrow’s dark eyes flicked up to meet her mirrored sunglasses. “Here.” She said.

“This the only one you got?”

“Just take it, Griddle.”

Gideon shook her backpack off of her shoulder. All that was inside was an iced coffee in a tumbler, a couple picks, and a loose earring cuff. Her belongings tumbled to the floor. Harrow's eyes watched the bag slump over. Gideon half expected a scoff or an eye roll from the sickly Victorian ghoul dressed up as a normal girl. It didn’t come, her expression as blank and cold as ever. 

She took the guitar. It was lighter than it looked, white as bone. She flipped it over, her eyes catching on several thin, ancient scratches covering the back. Something about 

... _her tomb_ , 

and 

_-ie,_

the latter having the previous letter worn out, which Gideon understood could only mean _die_.

She walked her new little friend over to one of the many amps littering the place, plugged it in, and tuned the poor, abandoned thing. She placed her finger on the fifth fret and carefully listened to the tonal change. First she got the low E just right. Smooth as butter and full. The A string rang with precision. D, G, B, high E. 

“E must stand for epic because that baby is perfect.”

“Please tell me you’re finished.” Hissed the dreadful damsel. “Listen.”

Gideon pried her eyes away from the magic spell of the stringed instrument now strapped to her shoulder, and up at her sworn enemy— now crouched in front of a laptop. She was wearing her daily uniform of nothing but shades of black and grey, a silver belt buckle shined over a tucked-in shirt. Her moth-bitten tee hung off of her like a sad dishrag. Her posture was awful, hunched over a screen full of red and green lines, a work in progress. 

She pressed play. A bassline and lyrics came through the laptop speakers. “Needs more drums,” said Gideon, immediately. 

Harrow snapped back, “You’re dreadful.” 

“You too! The one thing we can agree on, my Dark Lady of the Night.” 

“Hopefully we can agree on more than one thing—like this song, now _listen_.” Gideon listened. The bass was deep and heavy, the lyrics soft and ghastly. From the speakers, night boss started belting the lyrics like a fucking tool. 

Gideon winced at the volume, not expecting the gothic gremlin to have the speakers _all the way up._

1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4.

The verse ended. 

“The bridge still needs work, Ianthe has yet to hand over the rough keyboard track...” Mumbled the dark empress of a laptop operator. “..of course the latter can wait, I suppose.” 

Gideon had never seen her so focused, chewing the nail on her thumb to nearly nothing.

“We could take this section out, move this here—“

“Nonagesimus,” said Gideon.

“Stop, play it again, and for the love of god please turn it down _just_ a smidge.” Gideon said, making a pinching hand gesture at her. She tuned the low E into a drop D, dug into her deep jeans pockets and pulled out a shiny white pick. “Play it again,” she repeated. 

The skeletal hand that hovered over the laptop tapped a key, the song filled Harrow's huge rich person garage.

Gideon played through some chord ideas, strumming along with the lyrics, hoping Harrow didn’t notice her thinking too hard, and just waiting for one of her snide comments on her playing. One too low, one too high, one with too weird of a chord progression. Gideon tried not to lift her gaze might she see that Harrow was watching perfectly still with her with black hole eyes.

Gideon couldn’t stand it. It made Gideon burn. She tried to swallow the thousand kinds of fire she felt rising in her gut, broiling her to a char. A horrible dark-red heat was travelling up her neck and she knew it would go right to her cheeks if she let it, so she looked to the floor and said not a word, and couldn’t look at Harrow at all. 

* * *

Gideon’s heart was beating. Hard. Hard enough that she was worried the whole street could hear. So hard it almost rang in her ear like the echo from that last power chord. Reverberating and bouncing around in her brain like her last two brain cells were ping pong balls in a vacuum chamber.

She turned her attention to the curled over demoness in the middle of the room. Noticing her features set in the softest way she’s seen. Her lips parted, and black eyes slightly widened. Gideon felt that she saw something she wasn’t supposed to see.

“That sure was something.” Said the mouth that quickly returned to its default, brutal thinness. 

Harrow's words hung in the air like noxious gas. To Gideon, they were. She felt her throat tighten, nerves sending fight _and_ flight responses throughout her whole body- fumbling her mind around the fact that Harrow was capable of comments that weren’t absolute pointed death wishes from the devil herself. Gideon’s chest felt like exploding. 

Had she _helped_ Harrow after all? Done her a _favor?_ Done something that this Tartarean ruler found _useful?_ Gideon packed that thought away for all eternity and locked it away in a tomb and threw away the key, never to be opened again by anyone, even the lord himself. Maybe a therapist, like 20 years from now.

“So’s that a good thing? Oooor……”

She stood, petrified by fear, attempting to feign carelessness and failing tremendously. Fearful of the words that were about to be said, syllables already pouring their way from Harrow’s horrible, taut mouth. “Thank you.” Gideon froze, she tried to think of some silence-relieving retort, but nothing came. She was staring at Harrow for five seconds too long and wondered if those would be the final five seconds of her life. 

They weren’t. 

Harrow stood up from her floor cushion, so thin you could barely call it a cushion. How she could sit on the floor like that with no ass cushioning to begin with, Gideon had no idea. She wordlessly opened the door into her home. It shut behind her. 

Gideon exhaled, not knowing if she was holding her breath or if Harrow straight up stole it from her via prolonged eye contact. She placed the guitar against its original wall, grabbed her things, and followed.

She was here. If not by extortion and bribery, then by spite. She was in Harrow’s messy, but surprisingly dust-free hell den of a home, expecting her dearly detested to pop around the corner and lead her to the kitchen any moment now. 

Two pairs of black boots were kicked off near the door. She was chugging water from the tallest glass rummaged from the cabinet. Harrow with her eyes on Gideon, spoke drier than ever, “You’re the thirstiest being alive.”

Gideon laughed, until she didn’t. Assuming the million degree August weather was scrambling her brain, that still didn’t explain why she thought something that came out of Harrow’s terrible mouth was _amusing_. “Yeah I’m dehydrated too,” she chucked into her glass, taking another monster truck sized gulp.

The profound silence resonating off every surface in this witch's house made Gideon’s skin crawl. Standing over the kitchen island she could see a warped reflection in the refrigerator door, the fancy kind with an ice dispenser. Harrow fixed her own glass of water and sat across the counter. Gideon wanted nothing more than to either 1: Run straight back out and crawl home in this one thousand degree weather, or 2: Chew out harrow as to why her house was just as cold and dark and depressing as she was. She did neither. 

Harrow leaned her thin forearms at the edge of the island, watching the ice in her glass like they were gonna jump out and perform a show. 

“Do you know why I asked you this favor?” Harrow’s words cutting through the invisible fog of dread hanging in place.

“Because you needed to hire some muscle? Pull your band up from the ground with these enormous guns?” 

Gideon flexed an arm and made a kissy face towards it. 

“No,” and “ _absolutely not, thank you,”_ she said _._

The _thank you_ , slightly tinted with some kind of sarcasm behind it. Gideon gave a lopsided smirk in return. She leaned forward. 

“Is it because I’m the only guitarist you know?”

“No-,” and then,

“Yes,” begrudgingly. 

She pulled a small flier from her pocket, unfolded the page and read:

_“Small town, small bands. Singing and songwriting competition. Saturday, September 29th, 2pm. The Dome.”_

Harrow lowered the paper. “One month and three days from today.”

“And you’re wanting to join that?”

“I don’t see why not, cash prize is two thousand dollars.”

 _“_ That can buy a lot of skin mags,” Gideon said 

“Do the two brain cells in your thick head produce any kind of thoughts that do not involve _skin?"_ Harrow hissed, eyes piercing through to the back of Gideon’s skull.

Harrow let out an exasperated sigh and folded up the page, stuffing it into her back pocket.

“We need a song, we need a guitar,” she said, her voice, raspy and tired.

“You will act as lead guitar, for one song, one month. After which, you will have your freedom.”

Gideon wasn’t sure what was worse, spending a month with Harrowhark Nonagesimus, owner of the nastiest scowl on this earth with a tongue so sharp she could break you to pieces with one word, or backing out now and being faced with _owing_ her for the rest of eternity. Being haunted by the revenant of a skinny five foot three girl with a resting bitch face that can sucker punch planets out of orbit really sounded to Gideon, like the opposite of a good time. 

“Anything for you, my dreary duchess,” she said.

“Great.”

“We have practice this Thursday. I want you to be here, early,” she paused. Harrow's eyes searching for something in Gideon’s. 

“Eight. AM.”

“I’m sorry what now? Band practice at eight in the morning what are you?”

“Busy. As are our other instruments, who seem to occupy their days with real, actual jobs.”

“Ok, I think I just boarded the one-way train to nope-town, sorry bucko.”

“Thursday morning is the earliest and only time that works this week. If you have a problem, I suggest bringing it up with Tridentarius.” Harrow's eyes once more doing that horrible scanning, looking for another weakness to strike at full-force. 

Gideon did not want to bring _anything_ up with Tridentarius. 

“One month.”

“And three days,” Harrow added 

“And three days.”

“Can I trust you?”

“Trust me, I'll be at the damn thing,” she thought about adding _relax_ into that last sentence, but she wanted to live to see the morning. 

* * *

**Wednesday**

Gideon unlocked the door to her apartment, tossed her keys in the bowl by the door and fumbled with the velcro on her workout shoes. She kicked them off at the entryway and dumped her gym bag to the floor unceremoniously. She checked the fridge, ate _something, anything_. She closed up the tupperware of whatever it was and pounded back a day's worth of water in one gulp. 

_Thirsty bitch,_ she thought. 

She jumped in the shower, towel dried her hair for approximately five seconds, and fell into bed. Gideon, exhausted, groaned as she rolled over and set her alarm to 7:30. 

She turned off her bedside lamp, sunk into her perfectly pillowy blankets, and slept.

  
  


***********

Gideon found herself in a parking garage, and it looked vaguely familiar. She stepped out from a parked car and dived into a vast, dark pool. She passed straight down and swam past an escalator. 

She was in a Home Depot garden center. " _You’re in the pool. You’re in the combination pool/Home Depot."_ She said to herself. 

She was surrounded by lush plants, and she touched some of them upon entering, air bubbles floating up from the disturbance. They had bathtubs on sale. 

Gideon thought that was silly, she was underwater, the whole place could be a bathtub if she wanted it to be. She wrote a yelp review about this. 

A man came down a shopping aisle and spoke to her. He was built like a truck, his bronze skull was bumpy and knobby, with next to no hair at all. The man led her to a room, he said “Everything you need is in here.” 

The room was full of filtered air and she breathed in lungfuls. It was a kitchen. The man gestured towards her, handing over an apron, a nametag and a towel. Gideon passed her head through the apron, pinned on the tag, and tossed the towel over her shoulder. She chopped onions and garlic and peppers, tossing them into a pan. Fragrant aromatics and a soft sizzling filled the room while she diced lamb meat and tossed it into the pot. She topped it off with some fresh rosemary and a broth that was already prepped for her. Soon after, the broth released steam that danced in the air.

The doors at the front of the room opened, Gideon turned in greeting. 

A girl walked in, she looked hungry and drained. Something broke in her eyes when she saw the chef. Angry and sad and shattering. She slowly walked up to the serving counter. “What can I getcha?” Asked Gideon. 

The girl looked up at her, dark eyebrows basically in her hairline, wrinkling the middle of her tall forehead, looking like a pointy deer in headlights. 

Gideon heard a voice behind the girl say “This isn’t how it goes.” And the bubble burst. 

  
  


***********

  
  


When the city sounds outside started up, and the light of the day was already staggering, Gideon woke. Her brows furrowed as she rolled away from the window and the mind-numbingly overwhelming morning sun. She reached blindly for her phone. 

9:06am,

a single missed text.

Harrow (8:47am): _flip off emoji_

A now unlocked screen showing a calculator, 730

And Gideon died instantly. 

She ripped her sheets away, pulled on the nearest pieces of clothing, splashed her face with water, and ran. Heart pounding in her ears, rattling her brain. She breathed hard. Lungs pumping oxygen to her leg muscles as they screamed from yesterday's workout and _man_ could they scream. Gideon shook the thought away and pushed faster. Gideon never ran unless she had to. 

She made the 9:15 bus just in time, tapped her card, and sat. Nine stops later, she jolted out, sure that Harrow was going to end her life the moment she laid her soulless eyes on her. She had hoped to make it out of today with her body intact, but if she didn’t, she hoped it would at least be quick. 

Gideon, not sure where she contracted the brain worms that made her _want_ to return to the Crepuscular Queen’s haunted estate, to fulfil her vow and do this damn song, but she had a duty, and she would be loyal to it. She turned the corner and ran up the road where the sidewalk ends, breath hot in her throat. She sped up to the only driveway in sight, arriving at the same king-sized garage. Gideon doubled over, hands on her knees to catch the breath she’d lost the moment she woke up.

Ianthe, packing up her keyboard, smiled grimly in her direction. Gideon let out a weak, totally faked grin in return. 

“Where’s Nonagesimus?” she asked breathlessly. 

“Potty break,” said the voice that sounded like an oil slick. “And I’m sure she’s quite excited to see you.” Ianthe’s eyes narrowed, and Gideon needed to get out of her sight immediately. 

“You didn’t come!” Shrieked a voice from the front door, a voice she had never heard yell with that much rage, a voice belonging to a heart full of five-thousand nails. The voice stopped in front of her. Dagger eyes giving the girl an aura that made her seem a full head taller than she was, evil levels through the roof, coming straight for Gideon’s throat. 

Gideon found herself staring straight down the barrel of a loaded Harrowhark Nonagesimus, hoodie shaken back to reveal blazing black eyes, face sharp as a knife. 

She didn’t know what to say. Swallowing felt like taking a last breath on her deathbed - that she made herself - so now she will lie in it. 

“Nav. You gave me your oath. “And you didn’t even come.”

And Gideon was already prepping for her own certain, bloody demise. And if gideon played her cards right, she could avoid being impaled by iron spikes after what she was about to say. “That’s what she sai-”

She did not play her cards right 

“Griddle, ”

No words came after. Gideon knew that if there were words that came after, she would be seeing a one-way speed rail ticket straight into the bottom of Harrow’s boot. She knew that Harrow would turn her into pancakes over an open flame and not even have the decency to eat with butter and syrup. The thought made Gideon retch. 

Her boss’ eyes had no glint in them. They were only black. And angry. And sad. Always so angry and sad, this time extra angry and extra sad. Her face, the stillest Gideon had ever seen. The liveliest Gideon had ever seen. Seconds happened that felt like hours that felt like years. Harrow's clenched jaw looked like carved marble, and just as cold, it turned with her as she ascended the stairs to her front door. Harrow hated Gideon, she wanted to rip her to pieces right then and there, she was sure of it. 

“Sorry...?” she had nothing to lose.

"The joke wasn't awful.” said the voice, diminished, but still full of daggers.

“Not about the joke, Harrow.” said Gideon

 _"Harrow."_ The name stuck in her throat like a bad cold. 

Without realizing, that was the first time she had used Harrow's real name to her face, not _bone empress, not penumbral overlord_ , not _night boss._ Harrow. Real, bone-a-fide Harrowhark Nonagesimus. 

“Harrow,” she echoed, this time more confidently. Her mouth rounded out the syllables with a familiarity so alien to her.

Harrow turned towards her, eyes speckled with a sleepless pink and unwashed remnants of yesterday’s eyeliner, littered with flecks of fire.

“Nines, a ten is speaking--” hissed Ianthe from the driveway. Gideon was never more glad to hear her speak. Harrow’s burning cooled to ice as both of them turned towards the she-devil. 

“I need to go care for my darling sister. As much as I’d love to see it happen, please don’t kill each other while I’m gone, we still have a song to practice.” Her stare burned into Gideon’s brain, eyes of violet and dreadful pale blue. She then locked her gaze to Harrow’s.

“Toodles.” She waved goodbye with her sickly fingers. 

“See you Saturday,” said Harrow.

Gideons eyes trailed her down the pavement and watched as she peeled away in her ivory BMW.   
  


“How can you act so normal around that worm?” Gideon said, still ogling the over-waxed wad of cash that Ianthe rode around in. 

“Simple. Detachment.” 

And the daggers returned. “Next time you’re setting your real alarm”

“You’re letting there be a next time?”

“I’ve prepared another group meeting on Saturday, we’re doing this right. Ianthe, Coronabeth and Camilla will come before work. And you will be here. With us. _On time._ ”

“Damn, and here I thought I was off the literal and metaphorical hook.” 

“You will know when I release you from my service, Griddle.” 

“Always your sword, my umbral sovereign.”

And Harrow turned inside, and shut the door behind her. 

**Author's Note:**

> The start of this silly little emo band AU! Thank you to my friends that read this as a draft and roasted me lol
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this and this is my first multi-chapter piece! I can't wait to share more, and stay tuned for the playlist link next chapter ;-)
> 
> Harrow's T-shirt just for fun: https://www.schoolkillsartists.com/collections/new-releases/products/go-to-hell-tshirt


End file.
